Analytica
by xhere.there.nowherex
Summary: This should be considered AU, because this is not what's going to happen on the show.  However, this is based in canon, and hopefully not out of character. Just something that struck me and refused to let my mind rest. Spoilers up to DSSDOES?
1. Chapter 1

**Hi. I'm back. Well, sort of. I've been wildly busy with my studies, which completely wipe my brain of any creative thoughts whatsoever. I was terribly upset when I wrote this (way back on 11/3) because of the spoilers for DSSDOES? You know, _those_ ones. I'm rating this T for now, and I might as well leave it at that. There will be parts of this that are M, but I don't want to mark the whole fic as such. I'll give you fair warning before the M bits. There will eventually be a character death, but it will be in the future. So, consider yourself warned. Oh, also, I'm currently working on something _much_ lighter, but I want to get more of that written before I start posting that one.**

**I don't own FRINGE. If I did, BOPO wouldn't have slept together. Alas, what's done is done.**

**And without further adieu, I present to you...**

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**ANALYTICA - CHAPTER 1**

She's back, and she's beaten and broken in more ways than one. He can't even look at her. Every time he does all he sees are her scars, the worn expressions on her face. He sees the fear behind her eyes, it's dark and menacing, ever present. It almost makes her look younger, like a small child come face to face with a chimerical monster that's been living under her bed. Probably the most horrible thing that he sees every time he looks at her is her pain. Pain that he put there, that his father put there.

He starts thinking, and it's possibly the worst thing he could do. But those cogs are turning, and they're rushing into overdrive, burning thoughts along the synapses in his brain. For a moment, he's all nerves as the sensation of thousands of messages firing along his nervous system and blazing out across his axons overwhelm him. He reins it all in, keeping his mind in check, and he begins to analyze. He overanalyzes to the point of rational oblivion, and he plummets into a deep dark abyss of thought, because that's what he does. That's who he is.

He comes to a conclusion, and it's not one that he likes. It's not about whether he likes it or not. It's not even about whether she'll like it or not. It's about what's best for her, what's best for her world, for all these people that he now feels responsible for. After all, he realizes, if it weren't for him, none of this would be happening. If he'd never been here, there'd be no war. His side wouldn't be damaged. This side wouldn't be slowly starting to fall apart. She wouldn't have to save everybody. She wouldn't have to save him. She wouldn't even know him. He pauses to ponder that thought a bit, and it occurs to him that if they'd never met, she'd probably be leading a rather happy life. He wonders if she would have been married by now, if she'd have a family. Everything that he wants with her, but can never have. His train of horrible thoughts steams along at full speed. They should never have met. They should never have fallen in love. He's ruined her life. He hates himself, feels guilty. This is his mistake. He needs to fix it. He can only think of one way. He has to go back, and he must not return.

He takes a few moments to process what he needs to say, how he'll explain to her his 'desire' to leave. He wants to tell her how horrible he feels for what he's done, that he regrets it with every fibre of his being. He wants to tell her how he wishes he could take it all back, wishes that he'd noticed, that he hadn't just brushed it off. He wants to tell her how much he loves her, and how much he will never, ever, forgive himself for what he's done. He wants to tell her how sickened he is, how disgusted he feels with himself. He wants to explain that he could shower for weeks, months, and still not feel clean. But he won't. He can't. So he doesn't. He has to settle for cold, and harsh. He has to break her even more, because then at least maybe once he's gone she can start to heal. It minutely occurs to him that watching her break directly because of what he has to say to her might actually kill him. Death would be welcomed at this point, and he's more than once considered that a beautifully viable option. Then again, death would be the easy way out, and what is the point of him if he can't at least help end this whole disaster?

So, he says to her, "I'm not staying."

She looks at him, a morbidly confused expression spreads accross her bruised, cut up features.

"I'm going back," he explains, "I can't stay here. I don't want to."

He's not entirely sure why he adds that last sentence, because it's most certainly a lie. That's not what he wants at all, but he needs to make this convincing so she believes him.

"What," it's dry and her voice cracks a little. Her expression doesn't change.

She looks directly into his eyes, and he feels like she's somehow consuming his soul, trying to perceive what he's really trying to say. There is a deafening silence that lasts several seconds before she breaks it.

"Where will you go?" Her question is asked with little emotion, and considerable detachment.

He considers answering 'home' for a split second, but the word won't vacate his mouth. It doesn't feel right, calling that place home. Not that this place is home either. In a heartbeat he realizes that for him, home is not a place, it never has been. For him, home is a person. She is home. For the first time in his miserable existence, he is leaving home.

"I've already said that I'm going back. I intend to go back to my real family," he nearly chokes on his words, but he checks himself, and his voice remains cold and even, "I'm going to go back to be with my father, and my mother, and..." he tried to finish. Really, he did. He gave it his best effort, but he couldn't.

She finishes for him, "Her. You're choosing her?"

Her tone is incredulous, and her pitch is slightly higher than usual. Her face reflects her disbelief and if he's reading her correctly, there's disdain there as well.

"Yes," he says it in a pragmatic, unfeeling tone. He momentarily thinks that he might vomit as waves of nausea crash over him at what he's said.

"But I thought..." she's fighting for control over her emotions.

He hears it in her voice, the way she trails off, searching internally for an explanation she will never find. He watches her sadness dance across her face. It nearly breaks him, nearly drives him to run screaming into her arms, begging forgiveness for his sins. At this moment, he wants nothing more than to be held by her, hear her soothing voice calm all of his fears. He wants her to tell him that he will be fine. However, his mind is screaming at him that there is only one way to make things right again. There is only one way to save her. This time, he needs to protect her, he needs to make sure that she is safe and sound and alive.

"You thought wrong," comes his calculated answer. There is no emotion in his voice.

She's stunned into silence. She cannot believe what she is hearing, what he is saying. She has to be dreaming. Her heart is screaming at her over and over that this cannot possibly be happening. This cannot be real. Her mind is telling her that it is. She can't speak. She has nothing to say to him, she doesn't know what to say to make him stay. So she stares at him relentlessly. The tension between them is overpoweringly insuffrable.

No more words pass between the pair, and after many long, painful minutes, he walks out the door. She's left standing there feeling more cold and alone than she's ever felt in her entire life. Only then does she realize what the agonizing pain ripping through her being is; they call it heartbreak. The final piece of Olivia Dunham has shattered, and she slides to the floor and cries like she's never cried before. Heartwrenching, body-wracking sobs that shake her to her now empty soul. She's found in that exact slumped over position by Astrid a few hours later. She's still crying, but at least it's not as violently as before. Tears still flow silently down her cheeks, and Astrid tries to wipe them away to no avail. Olivia learns from Astrid that Peter is gone. He locked himself away in one of the labs of Massive Dynamic, tinkering with bits and pieces of technology. He managed to get himself home safely. No one is quite sure how he managed that, but he took the other Olivia with him. Walter is a mess. Astrid says that she intends to sell both his house and her apartment and move him into a new one with her. Olivia nods because that's all her brain will allow her body to do. Astrid offers to drive her to her sister's. Broyles suspends her from active duty, respectfully so, until she feels ready to come back. She can't even argue with him, mostly because she never wants to come back. Rachel is wildly confused and uncomprehensibly worried, but dares not to ask more questions after her first batch leaves her sister curled into the fetal position on a bed in a blackened room. Ella is sweet but fretful, and tries to comfort her aunt when she can. Six months later, Olivia goes back to work. She still doesn't feel ready, but she can't stand sitting around any longer, she feels unproductive and useless. That is not who she is.

Meanwhile, Peter tries to adjust to life on the other side, his side. It's something he'll never really become accustomed to. He lives alone, but he visits his mother frequently, and stays when she insists. Lucky for him, he rarely sees his father. He has a separate apartment in New York. The Secretary is never home. Elizabeth doesn't mind. One night she tells Peter the tale of how they've grown apart. Peter listens attentively and rubs a comforting hand along her arm. She smiles warmly at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. He blinks his confusion at her and she requests an explanation as to why he's come back here again. Two hours later, he finishes telling his mother everything. He went back there to be with Olivia, but she did not come back. He didn't notice it wasn't his Olivia, or he did, but he ignored it. Either way, he comitted the highest form of treason against the woman he loved, and he could never forgive himself. He tells her of the day he came here again. How the other Olivia had a cocksure grin plastered to her face, with a glint of pride in her eyes, like she'd won. He explained to her how he's sworn to himself that he will never touch that woman again, and he holds nothing for her except the utmost repuslion and disgust, a burning hatred that seethes through his veins. Somewhere along the misguided lines, she'd sort of fallen for him, but he'd made it clear to her that she meant absolutely nothing to him. She was married now, and pregnant. She was happy. He couldn't stand her. Every time he saw her, he was reminded of all the things his Olivia could never be, all because of him. He tells her how he feels like nothing more than a pawn in this war. A piece to be used and then discarded. He explains, or at least tries to, the machine. What it does, what it is, how it's supposed to use him. He tells her that this is the reason he came back, to make sure that it could never be used against anyone from any universe. He wants to destroy it, he's not yet sure how, but someday he swears to her that he will. He says that it's what she wanted. She always wanted to save both worlds, even at the expense of herself. He looks down when he's finished.

Elizabeth cups his cheek, and he watches as she fights back tears. Her son is in pain and there is nothing she can do to fix it. He's had to leave behind the woman he loves, his family, his friends, an entire world, literally everything. She realizes how hard he's trying to save everyone. She hopes with her entirety that it's not in vain. She makes him stay that night. Peter doesn't sleep, but he listens as his mother cries herself to sleep. Once her soft sobs and shuddering breaths have evened, his mind is flooded with thoughts of Olivia. He wonders what she's doing, how she is. He thinks that maybe by now she's met someone. His heart selfishly hopes that she hasn't, but only for a second before his brain takes over demanding that he wish only for her happiness. He doesn't want her wasting her life pining for him. He stares blankly at the ceiling not caring what tomorrow brings, or if it even comes.

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**Wow. That was a bit heavy, wasn't it? Soooo not like me. I have to admit though, that a few of my friends and I obsess a bit over self-hating, depressed Peter.**

**Anyway, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this, good or bad. And please point out if I've mucked anything up. I'm an American who prefers British English to the horrid thing we speak over here, so I tend to slip back and forth between the two (mostly when it comes to spelling). **

**And I will try to update this as often as I am able, but I've heaps of assignments to complete and exams to review for.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews! I was amazed at the response to this story! I'm really glad that you're enjoying it so far :) Sorry for making you wait, but I like to work ahead to a certain point before I update. Hope I'm doing this justice.**

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**Analytica - Ch. 2**

He must have dozed off somewhere in the middle of the night, because when he cracks his eyes open, he's greeted by the grey light of mid-morning. He rolls out of bed, and catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he enters the bathroom. He looks like a sloppy mess, completely unkempt. His saracastic wit gibes that at least he looks better on the outside than he feels on the inside. The aroma of bacon assualts his senses and after he brushes his teeth, he heads to the kitchen to see his mother making him breakfast. If feels disturbingly familiar, and it reminds him too much of the last time. She places a dish in front of him and he picks at some of it. Mostly he just pushes the food around. He notices that she's not eating. She's just sitting solemnly accross from him. He looks at her and his brow furrows.

"I think you've made the wrong decision," her voice is firm, but gentle.

He eyes her, but doesn't ask for an explanation, knowing she'll give one anyway.

"I know that this is not something that you want to hear, and that as your mother I'm supposed to say what makes you feel better, but you're an adult. You need to hear the truth, whether you want to or not," she pauses and he sits up, giving her his full attention, "I think you've made the wrong decision in leaving Olivia to come here. From what you've told me, it seems as though she'd be more than willing to help you put an end to all of this, and that you could have done that from her side, with her."

Peter cannot speak. Something clicks within him, and he knows that his mother is right. She crosses to him and wraps him in a comforting embrace. He utters a single syllable, 'mom', before burying his face into her shoulder and breathing heavily. He does not cry. Peter Bishop never cries. That's not who he is. But his breath heaves in and out of his chest as he processes what his mother has said to him. He now sadly realizes that he shouldn't have come here. At the time he had made his decision, had overanalyzed his situation, the only rational thought that was nagging at him was to keep Olivia safe by removing the greatest threat to her wellbeing, himself. He knew that for her to be happy, he had to get as far away from her as possible, he had to remove himself from her life. He had known that. Or had he? Now he absolutely knew he was wrong, and he felt like the biggest idiot in any world that had ever existed. Once he's somewhat calmed down, his mother releases him, and rubs her knuckles over his cheek. He tells her he needs to take a walk, get fresh air. She watches as he heads out the back door and disappears into the sparse wooded area behind the house.

His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he's lost in thought as he trudges on heavy feet through the woods. He hears the sound of a twig snapping, followed by rustling. He stops, and his eyes dart around the woods trying to discern the source of the sound. When he sees what has interrupted his melancholia, his heart hurtles into his stomach and then catapults into his throat.

"Peter?" her voice is wary and distrusting.

"Olivia," he nearly whispers.

He couldn't believe his eyes. He looked her over, greedily drinking in every inch of her that his vision would allow. Blonde hair, no wedding ring, and she was definitely not pregnant. In fact, he'd wager that she'd actually lost weight. She looked frail, almost like a ghost of herself. He realized he must look the same from the way she eyed him. The moment was gone and something dark and fierce beset her gaze. Instinctively, she trained her gun on him. He was her enemy now. Slowly, he withdrew his hands from his pockets and raised them submissively in the air.

"I'm not armed," he stated evenly, trying to calm her.

She stared at him, not knowing whether she could trust him.

"Olivia," he said her name again, and heavy sadness tinged his voice.

She holstered her weapon, and turned from him, but did not walk away. She couldn't face him. She didn't want him to see her looking so weak. He'd broken her so badly, and the pain he had caused her never fully went away. One hand rested on her hip, and the other ran through her hair. She was breathing deeply, and she felt her heart miss a few beats as she heard him approaching her.

"Livia, what are you doing here?" he sounded more concerned than anything else. She was expecting anger, or rejection.

"I," her voice was soft, barely audible, "I don't know."

He gently turned her to face him, and he asked her, "How did you get here?"

She swallowed and started mumbling, "There was a man, a suspect. We were chasing him. He started shooting at us. The next thing I remember is suddenly just... being... here."

Her eyes did not meet his. They stared at a tree trunk, wide with fear.

"You're scared," it was a statement.

She nodded, still avoiding his gaze.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Livia," his voice was low when he spoke.

At this her gaze immediately snagged his, and she glared, "I think it's a little too late for that, Peter." She spat his name, and he winced.

Instantly, she turned from him and stomped off further into the woods. He knew that if someone were to catch her, she'd be killed, or worse. He had to go after her.

"Oliv-" he tripped over a twig, but kept going, "Olivia! Where are you going? You can't do that, someone could see you!"

She stopped momentarily, then quickened her pace. It wasn't until she'd caught her ankle on the root of a tree and fallen over, successfully twisting it, that he'd been able to catch up with her. She growled frustratedly at her predicament, and he knelt beside her. He took her ankle into his hands and squeezed it gently. She grimaced, and he knew she'd twisted it badly.

She looked at him intently, "I hate you."

"I know," he undoubtedly believed that she meant every word.

He studied her, and when she made no movement to remove herself from the situation or his presence, he offered, "You should come back to the house."

Her head whipped around and she glared at him again, "Why would I want to go back with you to your house?" She was livid, "What? So, so, I can see how happy you are in your life here? In some house that you share with her? Why would I ever want to do that?"

"It's not like that," he stated as he scooped her up into his arms.

"Peter, put me down," her furious tone denoted serious warning as she tried to shove him away, "now."

"Oh, you think you can walk?" he asked sarcastically as he swiftly settled her on her feet.

She took one ginger step and stumbled. She blushed a deep shade of crimson when he picked her up again to carry her.

"I _really_ hate you," she restated.

They would've laughed at this situation under previous circumstances, but the animosity that filled the air sucked any remotely happy emotion into a black chasm of nothingness. He had to resist the urge to place gentle kisses along her temple once she'd wrapped an arm around his shoulders for support. Upon entering the house, he set her down on the living room sofa. She looked around for signs of her doppleganger, but found none.

"Where have you taken me?" she demanded.

"This is my mother's house," he explained, "I was visiting her."

"Oh," she uttered.

"I'm not, you know, married," his voice waivered as he spoke nervously, "I'm not even with her."

Olivia looked at Peter like she didn't believe him.

"She is, though," he explained, although he didn't know why, "married. She's, uh, she's pregnant."

Olivia looked sick. Her voice sounded hoarse when she spoke, "Is it, it's not..." She couldn't finish her sentence.

"Mine?" he finished it for her, and added, "God, no. We never, I mean, not over here. Not since..."

They used to talk so easily, but now, they couldn't even finish their sentences. Her eyes narrowed momentarily in confusion.

"So, Frank's?" she asked cautiously.

"No, actually, do you remember Lincoln Lee?" he inquired.

"Yeah, of course," she smiled slightly at that, and a flare of jealousy sparked through Peter, not that he had any right.

He looked down and away, but she was staring directly at him. When he looked back up at her, he saw a question burning behind her eyes.

"What?" his clasped hands fell between his knees as he leaned forward.

"You told me that you were coming over here so that you could be with her," her tone was accusatory, and laced with pain.

"I lied," it was all he could manage to say.

"Why?" her tone almost sounded pleading, but she wasn't desperate.

"It was the only thing I could think of to tell you, so that you'd let me come back over here," he shrugged and leaned back.

"If you didn't come back for her, then why would you even..." she trailed off, and he watched as realisation dawned on her.

"Peter." Her tone was serious and slightly reprimanding, "No. You could not have seriously thought... How could you... You cannot do this by yourself."

A wild look of confusion painted his face, "How the hell did you..." He was at a loss for words. How had she figured that out?

She gave him a look that indicated she knew him more than he thought she did. She understood him like no one ever had before. She always had. He realised that she probably always would.

"You're an idiot," she looked away, shaking her head.

When she looked back at him, it was to bombard him with questions, "What gave you the idea that you could ever do this alone? That I wouldn't want to help you? Why did you think you had to leave? Have you actually thought this through, or did you just get scared and run? Haven't you regretted your decision at all?"

He looked resolutely at her for several seconds before he answered somberly, "Olivia, I have regretted my decision to leave you every single second that I've been here. That was the hardest decision I've ever had to make, in my entire life."

"Then why did you do it? Why did you leave me?" She stated, sounding completely crestfallen.

"I did it to protect you, to keep you safe. I figured as long as I wasn't there, you wouldn't be as much of a target. I did it because I," he didn't get to finish his sentence, because she cut him off.

"Peter, if you truly cared about me, you never would have left me," she was dejected and angry. She sat silently fuming, looking purposefully out a window.

"Olivia," he stated in a serious tone that demanded her full attention, "I love you."

She choked on a breath and tried hopelessly to fight back tears. In a matter of seconds they were running down her cheeks. He sighed her name as he closed the distance between them to wrap her in his embrace. She hastily wiped them away, silently cursing herself for her moment of weakness. He had never seen her cry before. She was different, something in her had changed.

He whispered into her hair, "I am so sorry. Oh, God, Livia. I'm so sor-"

She had pulled back and her lips were on his, swallowing his apologies in a passionate kiss. He felt her tongue run along his bottom lip, and he allowed her to explore his mouth as he roamed hers. One hand enveloped her waist, drawing her closer to him, as the other ran through her hair and rested at the base of her neck. One of her hands rested on his shoulder, while the other fisted his shirt. She moaned softly into his mouth and he pulled her even more tightly into him.

"Peter, I thought maybe we could..." his mother's voice trailed off as she descended the stairs and was greeted with the shocking sight.

The pair jumped apart like they had been burned, and Peter accidentally jostled her bad ankle. She hissed in pain, and he offered a few quick 'I'm sorries'.

"Mom," he managed, wiping his mouth.

"Peter?" she questioned hesitantly.

"Mom, this is," he waited a beat, "this is my Olivia."

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**Well, that's that. Hope I've left you sated enough to last until I update again.**

**WARNING: The next chapter is going to be rated M.**


	3. Chapter 3  M

**Oh my. I am so unbelievably sorry I didn't give this to you earlier. I've had this done since last week...however. Let's just say last week was not a good week for me. Then to top it all off...we got the news that FRINGE is moving to Fridays. I had a bit of meltdown after that. Anyway. Here you go. **

**WARNING: THE CONTENTS OF THIS CHAPTER ARE NOT APPROPRIATE FOR ALL AUDIENCES.**

**THIS CHAPTER IS RATED M FOR SEXUAL CONTENT.**

**SO,**

**HIDE YO KIDS.**

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Elizabeth stood at the landing, frozen in place. She was staring fixedly at Olivia, the shock evident on her face. Slowly, she moved toward the pair on her sofa. Olivia stood shakily, placing her weight on her good ankle, trying to balance herself. Peter followed suit.

Elizabeth spoke first. "Hello," her voice was soft and uncertain, "I'm Elizabeth, Peter's mother."

She held her hand out, and Olivia took it hesitantly. She smiled warmly at the young woman, and felt her relax. Elizabeth noted that she even half-smiled back.

"It's nice to meet you," Olivia said tentatively. Nice wasn't exactly the first word that popped into Olivia's mind, but it sounded better than 'surreal'.

"Likewise," Elizabeth offered kindly, releasing Olivia's hand.

She glanced at her son, who's gaze was seemingly transfixed on Olivia. She sighed and cleared her throat before speaking to him.

"Peter," she watched as his eyes slowly met hers, "I was just heading out. I need to make several stops, so I should be gone for a few hours." She emphasized her last few words.

She placed a gentle hand upon his cheek and smiled at him, "I'll see you later."

Peter swallowed and nodded slowly. He felt like a teenager caught in the act. It made him feel stupid and ridiculous. He watched as his mother grabbed her coat, purse, and keys. She turned to smile back at him once more before shutting the door behind her.

He ran a hand over the back of his head and neck, then turned to face Olivia. She was looking down at the floor. She must've felt his eyes on her, because she slowly looked up at him. He noticed her doing that thing she did with her lip, and she momentarily scrunched up her face. Peter was about to say something, but she beat him to it.

"I- I'm sorry," she stated apologetically, "I shouldn't have- shouldn't have done that."

She sat and folded her arms defensively across her chest. He took this as a sign of obvious regret on her part, and an inability to forgive him. He took a seat across from her, and his eyes darted to the floor, then back to hers. Peter was willing to accept this, as he himself believed his deeds to be unforgivable.

"It's okay, Livia," his voice cracked a little, "I don't expect you to ever forgive me for what I've done. No amount of apologising will ever make up for it."

She blinked and looked at him, clearly astonished, "What?"

"I get it, you-" he started, but she cut him off again.

"No," she stated brashly, and then softened, "No, that's not what I meant."

Peter was now wildly confused, and she watched as he scratched the area where his hairline met his temple.

"Then," he began cautiously, "what do you mean?"

"I mean that this is hard for me, Peter. These past few months, after you left..." her voice faltered and she shook her head, "I could have forgiven you, Peter."

The certainty behind her eyes as she holds his gaze nearly paralyzed him.

"How?" he was able to manage after a few seconds, "How could you have ever possibly forgiven me for what I did, when I can't even forgive myself?"

His eyes left hers and focused keenly on the patterns of the wooden floorboards.

"Peter," she sighed his name, and leaned back before strectching to sit up fully, "I know her, I know what she's like. I was her. Essentially, she is me. We're not all that different. You didn't know she wasn't me," she was purposely not looking at him, "but when you told me you were leaving, to be with her. That you were choosing her, over me," her voice was thick and cracked a little, "I thought that maybe she was better than I am, you know? She's more laid back, easygoing. You could have fun with her. But me?" she swallowed, "Me. I realised then, that I wasn't good enough for you."

"Olivia," he interrupted her, with every intent on insuring her that she was in fact, too good for him.

"No, let me finish," she scolded. "Now I'm here, and I find out that you lied. And it hurts, Peter. It's not fair, because that was supposed to be me. It was supposed to be us."

She looked at him, and saw him rub a hand over his face. "Peter, I am tired. I am just... so tired, of everything. I'm tired of all the hate and the anger and the pain. I just want to be over it, be over you."

At that, Peter shifted, rested his elbows on his thighs, and placed his folded hands over his mouth. They locked eyes and their gaze was full of sorrow, grief, and pain.

"I just need to let all of it go. I need to move on," she finished, letting out a heavy breath, staring straight ahead, and not at him.

"Olivia," he breathed, and he moved closer to her, reaching a hand out to comfort her.

"Don't, Peter," she stilled him momentarily with her voice.

When she didn't shrink from his touch, he moved even closer. His thigh brushed up against hers, and it sent a jolt of electricity coursing through her body.

"Peter," she closed her eyes as his hand cupped her cheek, "you're just going to make this harder on me."

He closed his eyes at the supplicating tone in her voice. He waited before he leaned in. She could feel his warm breath against her ear.

He murmurred slowly in her ear, emphasising his last word, "I love _you_."

She let out a sharp, aching breath before his lips found hers again. He pulled her into his lap, deepening the kiss, proving to her just how much he loves her. Instinctively, she pressed her hips into his, and he groaned into her mouth. She did it again, but caught her ankle that time, and winced against his lips. He was about to ask her if she was alright, but she continued kissing him, not allowing him to speak. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, and broke their kiss for a fleeting moment to pull it over his head. Her lips were back on his before he could blink, and as he eased his tongue into her mouth, she moaned into his. He pulled away, and held her back, looking deeply into her darkened, lust dusted gaze. An unspoken question regarding the assurance of her convictions danced behind his eyes.

She answered his question in one breathless word, "Peter."

At that, he wrapped his arms around her waist, and stood slowly, pausing to steady himself. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and began kissing him again. He carried her to his bed, only stumbling a few times on the way there. Peter gradually lowered her onto his bed, and undressed her completely. He stepped back to remove his jeans and boxers. He carefully climbed on top of her, and her body arched off the bed to meet his. They both gasped at the sudden contact. Peter traced a path of hot, open mouthed kisses down her jaw line, over her neck, and settled on her chest, above her breasts. He sucked one into his mouth and ran his tongue over her nipple while he used a hand to massage the other. She gasped beneath him, and her breath caught in her throat. When he switched to devote the same attention to her other breast, her body arched into his, and her wet center rubbed against his arousal.

She reached down between them and grasped his erection that had become slick from a combination of her wetness and his pre-come. She teasingly traced her fingers up and down the length of him, and felt him moan into her chest.

"Peter, please," she beseeched as she opened for him, and positioned him at her enterance.

He left her breasts and stared directly into her eyes as he slipped slowly into her, inch by inch, until they were one. They both groaned their pleasure. He rested within her for a few moments, allowing her to adjust to him. Her hands roamed over his shoulders and down his back, and she pressed her hips into his, signaling that he could begin. He rocked into her slowly, memorizing every part of her, every sensation, every sound that breathlessly escaped her lips. She wound her legs around his waist, and ran her feet down his calves, pressing her toes gently into his flesh. He gasped his approval, and when her hands dug into his backside, he picked up his pace.

He was placing sloppy kisses all over her, and she began moaning loudly as he pulled out of her and pushed back into her, seemingly going deeper with each thrust of his hips. Her hips rose to meet his with each movement, and she began gasping, almost as if in pain. The pleasure was so intense for her that it verged on painful. She wanted and needed more. He must have sensed this, because he then angled himself and began thrusting into her harder and faster, gliding over her pleasure point. Her head tipped back in pleasure and she groaned. She knew she was close to her threshold, and knew he was close too, but she felt him holding back.

"Peter," she cried out to him in a breathy moan, "Peter, come for me. Come for _me_."

He drove into her a few more times before they both tumbled over the edge, calling each others' names. Peter collapsed above her completely spent, and buried his head into the crook of her neck. Their breathing was laboured, and they both tried to calm themselves. Olivia unwound her legs from his waist and relaxed beneath him. Her hands moved up his back, and she traced absent-minded patterns over his skin. She ran one hand up through his hair, and pulled him down into a sweet kiss. When their lips parted, he smiled hazily down at her. She opened her eyes slowly and returned his smile.

"I love you," he told her again, leaning back down.

"I love you, too," she whispered against his lips, before they locked on his in a passionate kiss.

He pulled back and spoke to her with a sincerty the depths of which she'd never seen before, "You're amazing."

"Peter," she blushed a light shade of pink, and turned her head away from him.

He placed a finger under her chin, and made her look into his eyes, "No, Olivia. You are. You _are._ You're perfect."

She gasped as their lips met, and he pulled out of her slowly.

"I missed you," he muttered between kisses, "so much."

"You," she breathed out each time his lips left hers, "have no idea."

Suddenly, she felt an odd sensation ripple through her entire being. Olivia gasped, and he looked down at her concernedly.

"What is it?" he asked, clearly worried.

"I," she gasped again, "I don't know."

She pressed gently against his chest, and as he rolled her over to rest above him, she groaned and he felt her slip from his grasp. He bolted upright, his head whipping around, scanning the room. Peter's eyes darted in every direction, looking for a trace of her, anything, anywhere, but found none. Just like that, she was gone.

* * *

**Ooooooh! I know. I'm cruel. Hello, Peter's mommy. Sad little conversation. Sex. BOOM. She's gone.**

**Don't hate me. I warned you in the very beginning this fic was angsty. I don't want to spoil you for the rest of this fic, but I feel that I should inform you that Peter is going to be stuck in the Alt-Universe for quite some time. Years, even. Not of his own will, of course. You'll see. **

**Also, I tried to make this sex scene different from my typical smut fest. Mostly, because I feel that it needed to be sweet, and slow, yet extremely passionate and pleasurable. I wanted it to be beautiful, in a sense. Hope that came across they way I've intended.**


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